


How Much Worse Can It Get?

by mific



Category: The Losers (2010), The Losers - All Media Types
Genre: Desert Island Fic, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 17:54:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1356589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mific/pseuds/mific
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A plane crash, a desert island - can Jake and Pooch survive until Clay and Cougar find them?</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Much Worse Can It Get?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Laura](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laura/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [Laura](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laura/pseuds/Laura) in the [MandatoryMinimums](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/MandatoryMinimums) collection. 



> **Prompt:** "Any fandom: Two characters stuck on a desert island. And that's not even the worst part."  
>  Written for the prompt challenge ushering in 2014's Remix Redux XI: The Eleventh Hour. Partly as I needed another Losers (2010) story and partly to avoid doing other more boring things.

 

“This ain't no _desert_ island,” said Pooch gesturing at the golden sand, the turquoise water, the coconut palms overhead. “This fucker's a _tropical_ island, see?”

“It's a figure of speech,” said Jensen dully. He was sitting in the shade under the palms with his head between his knees, trying not to throw up. It was probably just the knock he'd taken to his head – too early for dehydration or heatstroke. “It means, like, a small island, with no water.” Jensen lifted his head and glared at Pooch. “Unless _you_ can see where we're gonna get drinking water from? We've walked all over the island and there's NO DAMN WATER!”

“Had plenty of water in the plane,” muttered Pooch. “The Pooch always carries extra containers given how much we been flyin' around the Gulf.”

“Yeah, and that'd be just peachy if you hadn't _crashed_ the plane in the fucking _lagoon_ ,” groaned Jensen, head in hands.

“Thought we weren't gonna talk about the damn crash any more? Thought we agreed on that point?” Pooch said angrily.

“Sorry,” muttered Jensen. “Know it wasn't your fault.”

“Damn straight it wasn't. Some asshole sabotaged my girl. Probably Wade, or one of his goons.” Pooch kicked the base of the palm tree moodily. “Least we set off the emergency locator 'fore she went down.” He crossed his arms and stared out across the lagoon to where waves crashed on a reef some way off shore. “Those things're indestructible. Clay and Cougar'll come for us.”

“Eventually, yeah,” said Jensen. He'd hit his head in the crash and maybe had a mild concussion. It made him cranky and muzzy-headed. “We're not gonna make it very long without water, though. Not in this heat.”

Pooch frowned down at him. “How long you reckon we got?”

Jensen shrugged, then winced. “Dunno. People can mostly go for three days. Longer sometimes, in the right conditions.” He squinted up at Pooch, a dark silhouette against the too-bright sky. “Which these aren't. It's too damn hot.”

“Must be somethin' we can do,” muttered Pooch, glaring at the white sand, the sparkling blue sea. “Can't we drink fish blood?”

“Ew,” said Jensen, screwing up his face. “Yeah, but it'd be too salty. Plus how you gonna catch the fish, huh?” He waved a hand at the pristine beach. “Tom Hanks had bits of wrecked plane to make things out of. Had the ice skates as blades. We got nothing, just this tiny shithole island and a few goddam palm trees.”

“Don' need no ice skates,” said Pooch, pulling an eight inch hunting knife out of an ankle scabbard.

“Outstanding,” said Jensen. “Didn't know you wore one.”

“Won it off Roque,” said Pooch. “You got nothin'?”

Jensen shook his head. “Laptop's no good to us here, even if it wasn't at the bottom of the lagoon.”

“You got the emergency locator beacon started before we went down, though,” said Pooch. “That's the main thing.”

“Yeah, but unless Clay an' Cougar find us real soon, we're gonna be fried to a crisp.” Jensen gestured at Pooch's knife. “And even with that, you think you can catch a fish? Tom Hanks had a spear, not a knife.”

“Forget Tom fucking Hanks,” said Pooch. “I been fishing before.”

“Yeah, in a pond. Not here, with waves and rocks, and maybe sharks.”

“Sharks?” said Pooch. “What sharks? It's a fuckin' lagoon.”

“I don't know!" Jensen yelled. "It's a goddam desert island." He calmed himself down - yelling hurt. "In the cartoons there are always sharks. Anyway, there's no bamboo to make spears from on this island, no jungle, just these fucking palm trees." He looked up, frowning. "Jesus, fuck!”

Jensen lurched forward and knocked Pooch's legs out from under him. A huge coconut thwacked into the sand right where Pooch had been standing. They lay in a tangled heap to one side, staring at it wide-eyed. “I remember reading something in some airline magazine,” said Jensen shakily. “About how 150 people get killed by falling coconuts every year. They said it was urban legend.”

“ _Now_ you fuckin' mention it,” muttered Pooch, extricating himself from Jensen and retrieving his knife from the sand. “Guess it's only gonna be 149 this year.” he began hacking the husk away until the shell of the nut was visible, then hammered a hole in one end with the knife handle. He offered the nut to Jensen first, then drank some milk himself. “Guess we're gonna make it until the guys come for us, after all,” he said, wiping his mouth. “Long as we don't get brained in the meantime.”

“Yeah,” said Jensen, brightening. He felt a lot better now they had something to drink. And they could eat the coconut meat as well. Things were looking up. “We should stay in close to the base of the tree, so it's leaning away, dropping nuts further out.” He looked up. “Think you can climb one to get more?”

“Why me? You think the Pooch got tree-climbing ancestry? My folks come from L.A.”

Another nut thudded down on the far side of the grove. “Then again,” said Jensen, grinning, “Maybe neither of us gotta rewind evolution and return to the trees.” His smirk widened. “Not unless a goddam polar bear turns up, that is.” Pooch snorted and shook his head.

On the far side of the island a deep growl rumbled out. Something huge began crashing through the palm thicket toward them.

“Holy fuck,” moaned Jensen, scrambling to his feet. “I don't fucking believe it. Just 'cause we're the Losers!”

“Shut up an' get climbing,” said Pooch.

 

 

\- the end -

 


End file.
